Thursday

Here's a Shitty Memory

A guy who beat me up in high school after football practice went on to become a cop after graduation. After graduation, I went to a local college. I worked at a local restaurant. It was a damn cool restaurant, actually. It attracted all specimens of society in Portsmouth, Virginia. Including fuckin cops. Yep. I had to wait on this guy numerous times. He would actually request me when he came in. The kid who, in high school football practice, kept cutting in line and shoving me during drills, between plays, calling me a bitch, the kid who grabbed me by my face mask and twisted my neck all around and followed me after practice and told me to meet him behind Ames department store. So I did. The first thing he did was grab me by my hair and pull my face into his knee. He pounded me pretty good for a while. I mounted a minor comeback toward the end - pinned him against this hand rail and elbowed him in the face and pounded him in the guts. But everyone who witnessed it said, yep, I got my ass whipped, even my friends. Shit. The fight lasted a good ten, fifteen minutes. It seemed like forever. In the end, we were both just exhausted, and staggering around. Two football practices – one in the morning and one in the afternoon - and then a good, long brawl like that will take a lot out of you. The cops arrived. They put us in the squad car and took us to our football coach. That was great! (Coach was my Biology teacher too.) Yeah. Extra laps before and after practice for the rest of that miserable fuckin season and all kinds of other special treatment. Clean the chalk board, clean up the class room after frog dissection day or whatever the fuck. Finally I quit. Football I mean, not Biology. Fuck football. We lost every fuckin game anyway. Wrestling season was coming up, though I sucked at that sport too. Soccer was really my sport anyway, goddammit.

So yeah - he beat me up and became a cop after high school. It seems like bullies make such great cops. And I had to serve him his miserable fuckin fried catfish or whatever. Refill his tea. I never spit in his food once. I don’t know. He tipped alright. He didn’t really fuck with me like I thought he would - you know - not outright. He was friendly, and he didn’t talk my head off or run me back and forth for one ice cube at a time. We actually kind of joked around at times and shit. So I guess it was alright.

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